


the top of the world

by stammiviktor



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Okaeri | yoihomezine, Podium Family, Post-Canon, Supportive Katsuki Yuuri, Supportive Victor Nikiforov, Yuri Plisetsky Has Seven (7) Adoptive Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 17:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stammiviktor/pseuds/stammiviktor
Summary: It’s nearing ten p.m. on the third day of the off season when Yuri Plisetsky bursts through the front door and announces, "I'm staying here."With his body changing and the Olympic season approaching, Yuri decides he’s had enough.





	the top of the world

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I wrote this as a part of the amazing Okaeri Zine, the Dom edition, back in October and I'm super excited to finally share it on here! Hope you enjoy <3 
> 
> Thank you to [Ollie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/postingpebbles) and [Rachel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome) for beta-ing <3

It’s nearing ten p.m. on the third day of the off season when Yuri Plisetsky bursts through their front door with his entire life in his arms, ranting and raving and saving Yuuri from his fiancé’s favorite soap opera in the process. Luckily, they are both _clothed,_ which is more than can be said for the last time Yuri used the spare key to waltz in without knocking. For all the fuss Yuri made about wanting to pour bleach in his eyes, he probably should have learned his lesson.

“I’m staying here,” he announces, two giant duffel bags slung on his shoulders and an unhappy cat in the carrier in his hands, and marches right past the couch, down the hallway, and into the guest room. The door slams behind him.

The apartment goes silent once again save for Svetlana’s over-dramatic sobbing on the TV; for a moment it’s as if nothing happened at all. Slowly, Yuuri’s fingers creep toward the remote and pause the TV. Viktor meets his eyes and shrugs.

“I’ll call Yakov.”

Yuuri, for all of his earnest effort these past four months in St. Petersburg, still can’t understand more than basic pleasantries in his fiancé’s native language. He certainly can’t understand any of Yakov’s rapidfire shouting that stabs through the phone speaker. Still, Yuuri recognizes that tone from the number of times he has witnessed Viktor willfully disobey his coach, and he can imagine the exact, tomato shade of red of Yakov’s face as he rants into the receiver. Viktor’s expression wobbles between amusement, worry, and surprise.

Yuuri takes their wine glasses to the kitchen and rinses them in the sink, listening to Viktor’s even voice and the sound of Makkachin’s nails on the guest room door—she smells the cat, most likely, and wants to play. She whines, but eventually gives up.

When Viktor hangs up, he heads toward Yuuri, leaning on his elbows on the kitchen island.

“Let me guess,” Yuuri says. “The flip?”

Viktor grimaces. “Amongst other things, apparently.”

“We saw this coming.”

“We did.” They had enough tact not to bet on it, at least.

“But not the…”

“Not the ‘moving out’ part, no,” Viktor agrees. “Can I help?”

“I’m almost done.” Yuuri holds up a towel and gestures to the dish rack. “Dry these?”

Viktor, having his priorities straight, rounds the island and comes up behind Yuuri, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck before grabbing the towel to wipe down a dinner plate. Laughter springs from Yuuri’s chest.

“I’m going to go check on him,” he decides, and punctuates this with a retaliatory kiss to Viktor’s jaw; Viktor hardly seems to mind.

“Mm. Don’t forget to come check on me after.”

 

. . .

 

Muffled heavy metal screeches through the guest room door, and as Yuuri knocks he finds himself wondering, not for the first time, if Yuri’s eardrums will survive adolescence. After waiting a moment with no response, Yuuri swings open the door and finds Yuri on the bed, sprawled-out spread eagle with a cat on his chest. He pushes one headphone from his ear and grumbles, “What?” with less vitriol than Yuuri had braced himself for.

He holds up the bedding in his arms. “It’s been a while, I should probably change the sheets.”

Yuri shrugs and slowly pries himself off of the comforter, Potya jumping onto the floor where she is accosted by a very curious Makkachin. The cat hisses and darts under the bed.

“Sure.” A beat. Yuri shoves his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. “I can, um. Help. I guess.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

They strip the bed and work together to lift the mattress and slide on the fitted sheet, careful not to step on Potya or Makkachin as they chase each other around the room before darting out into the hallway. Yuri snorts a laugh.

“Are you hungry?” Yuuri asks as they smoothe down the comforter. “We have leftovers, some stroganoff…”

“Already ate,” Yuri clips. Then, seeming to catch himself, he adds, “Thanks, though.”

“Of course.”

“Katsudon?”

Yuuri pauses in the doorway. “Yeah?”

“Leave it open, in case Potya wants to come back.”

“Okay. Sleep well.”

“Yeah. You too.”

 

. . .

 

By the time Yuri emerges from the guest room the next morning, Yuuri and Viktor have already taken Makkachin for a walk, had their morning tea and an hour-long conversation with Hiroko over Skype, and meal prepped for both breakfast and dinner. They are sitting together at the table finishing up a list entitled _To pack - Hasetsu 2017_ when they look up to find a red-eyed teenager with pillow-prints on his cheeks and hair like a bird’s nest. He looks so lean and gangly, standing there in the hallway and rubbing at his eyes. He’s grown at least three centimeters since he was last here, and that was only a few weeks before Worlds.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

“Good morning, Yurio!” Viktor chirps. It’s a testament to Yuri’s sleepiness that he does not even correct him.

“Would you like tea?” Yuuri offers, heading to the kitchen with Viktor close on his heels.

“Mm. Yeah. Black. With preserves.”

Yuuri grabs the kettle while Viktor places the griddle on the stovetop, melting butter on the nonstick surface. Only when Yuri recognizes the batter that Viktor retrieves from the fridge does he seem to finally perk up.

“You’re making blini?”

Viktor beams. “I thought it would be something we could all enjoy.”

“You haven’t eaten yet?”

“No, we were waiting for you.”

“Oh.” Yuri crosses his arms over his stomach. “Thanks. I mean. Yeah. You didn’t have to.”

“No,” Viktor agrees, the _but we wanted to_ left unsaid. “Berry or apricot?”

“Huh?”

“The jam, for the blini.”

“Oh. Uh, berry.”

The apartment smells of browned butter as the blini sizzle away on the griddle—eventually, there are enough for two fully-grown men and one currently-growing boy. They sit together at the table with their cups of tea and dig in.

Yuri, uncharacteristically, eats in silence. He has never been the type to wait until he is finished chewing to talk—Yuuri has seen him rant and rave through enough meals to know he’s rarely concerned with table etiquette. He’s just quiet this morning, his shoulders pulled in close to his body and his blond bangs hanging over his eyes.

“I’m gonna call my old boarding house,” he tells them. “See if they have any openings.”

Yuuri and Viktor catch each other’s gazes out of the corner of their eyes. It’s subtle enough, but Yuri notices and raises an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Well, Viktor and I talked last night. You know we’re leaving the day after tomorrow for Japan. No one will be here for the next four weeks. If you want to save on rent, we could use a housesitter.”

Yuri blinks, flitting his gaze between Yuuri and Viktor and back again. “The fuck do you need a housesitter for?”

Viktor laughs and gestures toward the window. “Our plants, of course!”

“Since when do you have _plants?”_

“Since Vitya saw a windowsill herb garden on Pinterest. He’s managed to keep at least half of them alive.”

Yuri twists his fork between his fingers, searching their faces for any inclination that they might not be serious. When he finds nothing, he blinks and fidgets in his chair. “Okay. That’s good, uh, I’ll do that. Um. Thanks.”

Viktor chuckles—to mask any discomfort, Yuuri knows. “You don’t seem too sure.”

“Well.” Yuri shrugs, looking down at his plate now as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “I guess I thought you’d take his side.”

“Hm,” Viktor hums, standing and gathering the plates and silverware. “Well, this isn’t about taking sides.”

“Ah.” Yuri clears his throat and gestures to the dishes. “Do you want help? With, um…?”

“Nope!” Viktor chirps.

“Oh. Well. Um, thanks. For the blini.”

Yuuri has heard the word _thanks_ from Yuri’s mouth more times since last night than the six months before. He offers the teenager what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and gets a characteristic—and almost reassuring—scowl in return.

“Your boyfriend is fucking weird.”

As with most of Yuri’s aggression, Yuuri sees the quip for what it is: faintly fond, and an ultimately harmless cover. Yuuri smiles. “Fiancé.”

“Eh, whatever.”

 

. . .

 

“So then if you subtract this from here, and put it _here,_ you should have enough for groceries, while still making rent. You’ll need to set aside more for utilities, of course, but you could pull that from… hmm.”

Viktor trails off, tapping his chin with his open pen; there’s a little streak of blue on his bottom lip. His eyes pore over the spreadsheet laid out before them, covered in circles and arrows in that same blue ink.

Yuri crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “We can’t pull from there. Dedushka relies on that. Take it out of entertainment.”

Viktor frowns. “You have the minimum percentage budgeted there as it is.”

“So? It’s not like I spend much time doing anything outside of skating, anyhow.”

“What about the phone bill, then? That’s way too high. Yuuri and I have great plans, if you switched providers…”

Yuri shrugs. “Okay. Maybe. Yeah.”

“These savings, though, you shouldn’t touch. Put them in a savings account, start accumulating interest as soon as possible… I can help you set it up when we get back, if you want.”

Judging from what Yuuri can see of the spreadsheet from the other side of the table, Yuri is not exactly strapped for cash. His bronze from Worlds last week came with a significant chunk of prize money (though not as significant as Viktor and Yuuri received for silver and gold), and he has a handsome Nike sponsorship lined up after his history-making senior debut. But moving out of Lilia’s apartment means a cost of living no longer rolled into predetermined coaching-and-boarding fees, which means he needs a serious breakdown of his budget.

“...on the principal, which is the last thing you want to do. Oh, and if you want to look into investment, too, I can get you in touch with an advisor…”

There are many reasons why Yuuri cannot wait to marry Viktor Nikiforov. Never having to deal directly with his own finances again is near the top of the list.

Yuri’s brow furrows. “Okay. Yeah, sure. That’d be good.”

An hour later, budget complete, Yuuri kills Yuri in yet another round of Street Fighter.

“Fuck! That’s not fair!”

Yuuri shrugs, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Seemed fair to me. Maybe if you played better...”

“Ugh, you _suck,_ let’s go again.”

“What kind of sportsmanship is that, Yura?” Viktor chimes in, not even looking up from his book. Potya, curled up against his side, meows her agreement. “See? Lion Cheetah Spider thinks so, too.”

“You are both the _worst._ Potya, get away from him.”

Puma Tiger Scorpion purrs as Viktor scratches under her chin, fueling Yuri with just enough teenage rage to kill Yuuri in the next round.

Throwing his hands in the air, Yuri proclaims, “Ah, vengeance is _sweet.”_

 

. . .

 

They eat dinner on the sofa with their plates in their laps because no one feels like setting the table. Yuuri suspects he will be fishing grains of rice out of the cracks between the couch cushions for months to come since Viktor, despite his less-than-advanced skill level with chopsticks, insists on using them for every meal. Still, his supposed reason for doing so— _to get better for when we retire back home in Hasetsu, Yuuri!_ _—_ makes up for any frustrations Yuuri could possibly have.

When they begin to eat, Yuri is quiet once again, keeping his head down as he sucks food into his mouth like a vacuum. However, by his third helping of chicken and, more importantly, his second glass of wine, he becomes much more talkative.

“I think you’ve had enough,” Viktor decides as Yuri goes to pour himself a third.

“What are you two, my parents?” Yuri grumbles, but he doesn’t push it. He sulks back in the armchair with a huff.

“No, but when you have too much wine you fall asleep, and it’s not even eight,” Yuuri notes. “You owe me at least two more rounds of Street Fighter.”

“Ugh, fine, if you _want_ to get your ass beaten.”

“You wish.”

Yuri snorts. “Well. I guess you two don’t really suck that bad. You’re cooler than them _,_ at least.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, _them._ Yakov wouldn’t let me drink at all, not even on my days off.”

“Only because you live with him,” Viktor objects. “What kind of coach would he be if he _helped_ you get drunk?”

“I don’t know, maybe one with fewer sticks up his ass? It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway. He treats me like a child and I’m fucking done.”

Yuuri squirms in his seat. Despite everything, he has immense respect for Yakov Feltsman, and he knows Viktor does, too. “I’m sure it’s not his intention to—”

“Yura, stop that,” the teenager mimics, his face screwed up in a scowl. “Yura, do your stretches, Yura, go to sleep, Yura, let me make all the important decisions for your career and give you absolutely no fucking say, Yura.”

“Yura—”

“Don’t _Yura_ me!” Yuri growls, jerking forward in the armchair and wrenching the bottle of wine off of the table. Viktor makes no move to stop him. The contents of the bottle tip into Yuri’s glass with a _glug glug glug_ that almost sounds as angry as the boy pouring them. “He’s underestimating me and I am _sick_ of it!”

Viktor quirks an eyebrow. “‘Underestimating’ and ‘trying to keep you from getting injured’ are not the same thing.”

Undoubtedly, Yuri has heard this line from Yakov at least ten times. It only adds fuel to the fire.

“So what, then? The Olympic season, and I’m just supposed to give up on the flip? On the _lutz?”_

Yuuri blanches. “You want to train the lutz too? _”_

“So what? You are!”

“Yes, but—”

“But what? But it’s different, because it’s _you?_ Don’t forget who taught you the salchow, Katsudon. I’m twice the jumper you’ll ever be—”

“Yuri Ivanovich,” Viktor cuts in with a measured, ice-thin voice, “that is enough.”

“Fine,” Yuri huffs, his shoulders slumping. He takes a giant gulp of wine. “But what, then? I’m just supposed to roll up to Pyeongchang with the same jumps I was landing at fourteen? Watch as you two idiots and fucking JJ sweep the podium and I go home with _nothing_ just because Yakov Fucking Mikhailovich heard my voice crack _once_ and decided I wasn’t allowed to do anything but waltz jumps for the rest of my life?!”

“You still have the toe loop and the salchow,” Yuuri reminds him. “You have the world record for the short with just those two—”

“Yeah, and I had to Tano and Rippon the _hell_ out of them just to be competitive, and look where they got me last week.” His eyes flit to the shelf of medals in Yuuri and Viktor’s bookcase and its two new additions: the 2017 World Championships gold and silver. The rest of the wine disappears down Yuri’s throat, the empty glass slamming down on the coffee table. “This is just how it starts. No flip, no lutz, and next thing you know, my fucking giraffe legs won’t even land a quad toe and then fuck if I’ll _ever_ land the axel!”

Yuuri blinks. “...The _quad_ axel?”

Yuri crosses his arms over his chest almost violently, defensiveness shuttering over his eyes. “Yeah, and what of it?”

Viktor sighs. “It’s dangerous.”

Yuri snorts. “Yeah, and all the other shit we do isn’t?”

“It’s just—”

“It’s _just_ that world records aren’t enough, _Viktor_ , and you know that better than anyone else. You were only retired a half season before both of your records got broken! Ratifying the axel, though— no one takes that away. I know I can do it, if my body would just fucking _cooperate_.”

Viktor taps his index finger to his chin. “So you admit your body’s changing.”

“Of course my body’s changing!” Yuri’s voice cracks on the last syllable. “I’ve grown ten centimeters since Europeans and nothing I own _fits me_ anymore and my legs hurt like a _bitch_ all the _damn time._ ” Yuri goes for the bottle again, but Viktor pulls it out of reach.

“And yet you really think it’s a good idea to try—”

“Fuck, you’re worse than he is,” Yuri growls, running a furious hand through his hair. “How much clearer could I make this for you idiots? The Olympics is my chance. Unless I want to be that kid who won his first Grand Prix then was never heard from again, I _have_ to keep topping myself!”

At his side, Yuuri feels Viktor go very still. He doesn’t need to glance upward to know the expression on his fiancé’s face—blue eyes unblinking, mouth frozen in a pleasant line that betrays nothing unless you know what to look for. Yuuri tightens his arm around Viktor’s waist, then he pulls away and stands.

“I’m going to make us some tea. Would you like some, Yurio?”

Yuri blinks at the sudden shift in mood. “Uh. I’m fine?”

The kitchen is open to the living room, so Yuuri hears everything even as he grabs cups from the cabinet and sets the kettle on the stove. For a moment, there is silence. When Viktor finally speaks, his voice is quiet and serious with urgency tugging at the ends of each word. “Yura, you don’t have to keep topping yourself.”

Yuri scoffs and mumbles something in Russian that sounds both crude and incredulous. Though Yuuri is on the other side of the room, Viktor still insists on replying in English.

“Listen. You’re only sixteen. If you’re lucky, you have at least another ten years of competitive skating left.”

“If this is going to be one of those bullshit _you’re so young, put it in perspective_ pep talks—”

“It’s not,” Viktor deadpans. Yuuri’s heart squeezes as he spoons out some genmaicha. “I was twenty when I won my first Grand Prix Final. Twenty-two when I started to win everything. You’re starting out on the top already, and you’re only _sixteen._ ”

A pause. The electric kettle shuts off. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri sees Yuri fidget in the armchair. “I thought you said this wasn’t—”

“You have ten years, Yura. Ten years of fighting tooth and nail just to keep getting the same medals at the same competitions, not really satisfied with winning anymore but terrified of the day that you don’t. You have ten more years of trying to stay at the top.” Viktor sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I barely made it three.”

Yuuri knows all this. He’s heard it all before, insecurities and memories whispered against the skin of his collarbone while they’re wrapped up together in their bed. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t make his chest feel tight and his hands tremble as he waits for the tea to steep.

“Bullshit, you won everything for at least five years—”

“Yes, and the last two I spent miserable.”

Yuuri needs to be next to Viktor, proper tea-making practices be damned. He pours the watery liquid and walks back toward the sofa, setting the two steaming, porcelain cups on the coffee table and sitting next to Viktor. They take each other’s hands, Viktor’s fingers a vice-grip around Yuuri’s.

“What’s your point?” Yuri grinds out, his eyes fixed on his leopard-print sneakers.

Viktor hesitates, then picks up his tea and blows softly on the surface. Buying himself time to think, most likely, and when he finally replies, it’s with a phrase Yuuri had heard a few months before:

“Being at at the top of the world is only scary if you’re afraid of falling every once in awhile."

Sometimes, Viktor’s random ramblings come out sounding like poetry. But this is no offhanded thought—he has had months’ worth of therapy sessions on this exact topic to find the best way put it into words.

“You’ve set your bar really high right off the bat, Yura,” he continues. “If you try to keep topping yourself, you’ll be out of inspiration before you hit twenty, which for a figure skater is—”

“As good as dead. Yeah, I know.”

It’s something Yakov likes to say, sometimes. Upon moving to St. Petersburg, Yuuri was surprised to discover just how many of Viktor’s bits of wisdom had been picked up verbatim from his own coach.

“So what, then? I just magically make myself okay with losing?” Yuri’s gaze flits once again to the bookshelf where Yuuri and Viktor keep the medals from this year’s Worlds. “With bronze, or _worse?_ ”

Despite himself, Yuuri laughs. A few minutes have passed since he’s said anything, and Yuri looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head.

“What? You’re never actually okay with losing. _I’m_ never okay with losing,” Yuuri admits. “But I think what Vitya means is…” He trails off, catching Viktor’s small smile of encouragement out of the corner of his eye, and shrugs. “I guess it’s remembering that even if you lose, once or twice or for a whole season, it doesn’t have to define your career. I mean, for months after the Sochi disaster I thought that qualifying for that GPF would be my peak. Then this year I won Worlds. So.”

“Which, Yura,” Viktor chimes in, “is something you can’t do if you’ve torn your ACL attempting to learn new quads on legs that are growing a centimeter a week.”

Yuri won’t quite look at them, his gaze fixed on the wood grain of the coffee table. Yuuri knows that his silence is as good as a concession.

“Yakov isn’t trying to sabotage you,” Yuuri says, feeling like he’s walking on eggshells. Every word is measured. “Maybe you only take the quad sal and quad toe to Pyeongchang, but is that so bad, if it means you can take the axel in 2022?”

Yuri doesn’t respond. His mouth is pressed in a firm line.

“You moved here from Moscow for a reason, Yura,” Viktor reminds him, and Yuuri’s ears perk up. This isn’t a story he has heard before. “Where do you think you would be in 2022, if you had stayed?”

Viktor’s insinuation is as clear as day. After all, Yuuri has heard Yakov ranting about the most prominent skating coach in Moscow on many occasions, and over the span of his career Yuuri has read many comment chains and subreddits dedicated entirely to Valentina Dmitrievna’s questionable, if not downright abusive, coaching practices—glad, always, that Valentina favored ladies’ singles and that Viktor had Yakov Feltsman.

Yuri snorts. “I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Exactly,” Viktor nods. “You know as well as I do. Her students burn bright for a few years, maybe, before there’s nothing left to take and she moves on. I’m twenty-eight, and I’m still skating. If you can take it from anyone, you can take it from me: Yakov _wants_ you to succeed.”

Yuri waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Ugh, stop it. I know.”

“Alright.”

“I’m just. I, just, ugh, I’m just…”

Yuuri and Viktor wait quietly and patiently.

“I’m just tired of feeling like someone’s watching everything I do. Everything sucks right now, and I just. I need space.”

Yuuri, perhaps, can understand this particular necessity better than anyone. An idea begins to take shape in his mind, but he will have to run it by Viktor.

“Well, I’ll make you a deal,” Viktor says. Yuri blinks and sits forward in the armchair.

“What?”

“If you agree not to learn any new jumps this season, I’ll choreograph both of your programs. And I’ll make sure they’re good enough for Olympic gold.”

Yuri smirks. “How do I know you won’t forget?”

“Between now and May? Please, Yura. Send me some music selections, and I will start listening to them on the plane.”

“That’s, yeah, okay. Sure. Deal.”

He extends his hand, and they shake on it.

A few minutes later, standing over the dishes at the kitchen sink and just out of earshot of Yuri, Yuuri and Viktor talk.

“Yuuri! That’s brilliant. There should still be tickets, let me…”

They walk back into the living room with a laptop in hand, politely ignoring the suspicious glare on Yuri’s face. His cheeks are flushed red and his eyes narrowed.

“You’re up to something.”

“We had an idea,” Yuuri begins. “Yura, would you like to come to Japan with us?”

Yuri blinks, uncomprehending, for a few moments before the words register in his head. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

“Uh. I mean. I can’t really afford a ticket right now, maybe next summer after I sign the Nike deal—”

“We have frequent flier miles,” Viktor cuts in. “Think of it as a late birthday present.”

“You— that’s, a birthday— what the f— I mean, are you _sure?”_

“Of course! A month is a long time, I know, but we can work on choreography at Ice Castle. I’m sure Yuuko will be so excited to see you.”

The amount of alcohol in his system seems to have caused Yuri’s stoic defensiveness to malfunction. His eyes look suspiciously wet. He still hasn’t thought of anything meaningful to say.

“Yeah,” he finally responds, sounding slightly breathless. “I mean, yes, yes, I— that would be. Yeah. Great. Yeah. Thanks. Um.”

From their bedroom that night, they can hear Yuri on the phone with Yakov. There is considerably less yelling than either of them expected—a tentative peace, perhaps? The unpleasant _something_ that has been buzzing in Yuuri’s chest since Yuri burst through their door the night before finally quiets and he exhales a sigh of relief. From where his head rests against Viktor’s shoulder, he hears his fiancé do the same.

 

. . .

 

In Hasetsu, the first thing they do is eat katsudon—and a lot of it. Due to the logistics of bed sizes, Yuri moves into Yuuri’s old room and Yuuri into the banquet room where Viktor had stayed last summer. Viktor rush-orders a pair of noise-cancelling headphones for Yuri before he has the chance to complain about sharing a wall.

Yakov texts Viktor: _Keep an eye on him._

Viktor replies: _Don’t worry, we’re taking good care of him <3 _

And they do. Yuri goes to ballet practice with Yuuri at Minako’s, takes Makkachin for runs on the beach, and helps Hiroko run errands and lift heavy boxes. The katakana for _Yurio_ show up on the family chore chart, and he never slacks off. One day, Yuuri returns from the store to find Yuri staring at his picture on an old ‘Onsen on Ice!” poster hanging proudly in the entryway, right next to the framed family photo they took last summer, both with Yuri front and center.

They spend all four weeks choreographing for all three of them in earnest, sketching out ideas on the ice and piecing their Olympic season skates together bit by bit. A week in, Yuri returns to Yu-topia yelling Viktor’s name, proclaiming that he found his music for his free skate. The bare bones of the program start to come together then and, flip or no flip, lutz or no lutz, Yuuri can see Yuri’s eyes sparkle as he watches Viktor demonstrate it all the way through for the first time.

After each day at the rink, they soak together in the onsen in amiable, relaxing quiet.

When May rolls around, the new season stretching out before them, they are all at peace with the idea of returning to St. Petersburg. Hiroko packs three bento boxes for the train and they eat them as they watch Hasetsu castle disappear on the horizon.

“We’ll be back soon,” Viktor says with a smile, then pops an onigiri into his mouth.

Their flight connects through Moscow before arriving in St. Petersburg, but they have arranged for Yuri’s layover to last a few days. His grandfather, a bag of pirozhki, and his cat that he dropped off on the layover on the way to Japan are all there waiting for him. Nikolai engulfs his grandson in a warm hug, and Viktor’s fingers tighten around Yuuri’s.

 

. . .

 

It is only a few days later, then, that Yuri comes bursting through their door once again. He has only a single, rolling suitcase trailing behind him and the cat carrier in his hand.

“Ew, stop that,” he complains, effectively ending Yuuri and Viktor’s makeout session on the couch. “You have the rest of my stuff?”

“In the guest room.”

They help Yuri carry his belongings down to the cab and place them in the trunk. “I talked to Yakov,” Yuri shares.

“Yeah?”

“He says we can talk about it. The whole feeling suffocated thing. And, you know. Rethink.”

Yuuri suppresses a smile as he guesses, “So you’re not going to the boarding house?”

Yuri shrugs. “It sounds lonely as fuck, and they have all these annoying rules I forgot about,” he admits. “Besides, Yakov gives me rides to the rink. So. I figure I’ll stick it out for a while longer. Until I turn eighteen, maybe. Then get a place of my own.”

They stay on the sidewalk until the cab turns the corner at the end of the street, then head back upstairs and collapse once again on the couch.

“He will be okay,” Viktor says, running his fingers through Yuuri’s hair.

Yuuri hums, a soft smile gracing his lips. “I know.”

A few minutes later, both of their phones ding at the same time—Yuuri’s with a text from Yuri, and Viktor’s with a text from Yakov. Both are written in Russian.

And both simply say: _Thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed! I have been so feedback-starved on this particular fic for so long, I would love to hear what you thought :) 
> 
> find me on tumblr at [stammiviktor](https://stammiviktor.tumblr.com/)!


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